When the Sun Rises
by Virodeil
Summary: Camp NaNoWriMo project, July 2013: Evandar, the King of the Elves, is portrayed as "stern and proud" and silver-haired in the Cycle. But was he always like that? What could be the beginning that saw to the making of the King that we glimpse in the series? I assure you, it was truly unexpected.
1. Chapter 1: The Cousin

When the Sun Rises  
By: Eärillë

Camp NaNoWriMo project, July 2013: Evandar, the King of the Elves, is portrayed as "stern and proud" and silver-haired in the Cycle. But was he always like that? What could be the beginning that saw to the making of the King that we glimpse in the series? I assure you, it was truly unexpected.

Chapter 1  
_The Cousin_

One bird rises in a short, sweet, high-pitched song. I yawn and stretch a little. The bed is so nice and plump and fluffy, and the sheets are so soft and comfy and cool against my skin. My bedroom is still dim and cool and silent too, the perfect sanctuary.

Another bird pipes up with its own song, just as sweet and high-pitched as the first but longer. Then another, and another, and another join the choir, with varying pitches and length but all the sweeter. All the noisier too … Time to wake up, perhaps. But it is so cozy here …

The choir of songbirds spread out, and I hear feather-flapping amidst the songs. My lips twitch. The birds are up before I am, today. But I am feeling lazy this morning anyway. I blink, yawn, rub my eyes, stretch out completely, luxuriate in the feeling of the downy bed sinking under my weight and the sheets rustling against me.

"Andar … "

I flop over onto my belly with a sigh. Ata is calling. It is really time to get up, then. But I do not really want to get up this morning. Something is niggling in my heart, telling me that I will not like what the day may bring, and I believe in it. Still, I have been observing sunrise over the treetops of our home forest for as far as I can remember, usually with Ata and sometimes with Ama too, so there is no getting out of it today.

I wriggle half out of the sheets with deliberate slowness, then crawl just as slowly to the edge of the bed with the sheets still dragging behind me.

Ata appears on the door, setting aside the curtain of vines by shouldering his place in-between them. I grin guiltily at him. "Ata," I chirp at him. I completely forsake the sheets and jump down onto the soft, fluffy rug Ama made for me when I was born. A pair of arms are ready to catch me as I dash across the rug and fling myself at Ata. And in short order, I am already climbing up his body and settling in my usual place hanging from his shoulders.

He laughs. I grin again, wider this time. I am feeling lighter and merrier already, by the sheer proximity to him.

"You are twenty years old already, son, not five," he chides me. But my grin is still very much in place, and I answer him only with an impish chuckle. He shakes his head, even as we cross the family room and he ascends the stairs to the top of our house.

I am still clinging triumphantly at him, and despite his words Ata does not seem to mind my weight or childish attidue. Well, I am still a child after all!

We look to the east. I am perched on the railing, while Ata stands behind me with his arms around my middle and his chin propped on the top of my head. The forest is a sea of green below us, glinting with dew under the grey light of predawn and swaying gently in the breeze.

The sun peeks over the snowy mountaintops like a huge, glittering eye peeping over a broken windowpane. It rises slowly but surely, sending all sorts of brilliant hues scattering across the eastern sky: elegant, unhurried, but cheerful. The birds below tweet even more energetically than before, as if welcoming back their king and protector to the heavens. But the sun rises on its own unhurried pace, which makes it breath-taking to behold as it at last breaks free from the mountaintops as a round, vast, brilliantly-yellow shield. And with that, as if a sheet has been drawn back from the world, the sky springs into shades of light blue and light grey, the air warms as if from a loved one's embrace, and the forest shines brightly as if burning.

I beam at the sun, greet it a silent good morning, welcome it back to the sky in my own way. Ata tightens his arms around my middle, and I can feel the muscles of his face stretch into his own beaming smile from where his chin connects with my head.

I can never grow tired of watching the sun rise, especially when I am watching it with someone who appreciates it just as much. And that is why, more than all others, I am happy and proud to be counted in Alantra: the House of Sunrise. Sendis, Ama's House, already has twice or thrice the number of members of Alantra, anyway. And speaking of which …

"Where is Ama, Ata? I did not hear her anywhere in the house."

Ata sighs and slumps a little. My heart twinges in worry. My jubilation on the sunrise and its warmth subsides into cool discomfort. "Where is Ama, Ata?" I persist.

He sighs again, then after a brief silence murmurs, "Ama is visiting her cousins, son. Then she is going to help me arrange for the arrival of the Shur'tugalar."

Oh. Them. Ata is never happy when they are around. Ata does not like dragons. Ama too, come to think of it again, but Ata seems to dislike them more. From my interaction with the other inhabitants of Osilon so far, I have long realised that Ata and Ama are the odd-ones-out in that regard. Other people praise the dragons so much and so endlessly, and in turn the partners of those dragons get some adulation as well. Neither Ata nor Ama ever told me why they do not rain sweet words and flattery and gifts upon the dragons and their partners, hence my opinion is quite different from theirs; it does not mean that I will fall into singing profuse adulation to the dragons, still, given how I have been raised.

But those huge, talking, fire-breathing lizards are indeed beautiful, in a deadly sort of way … I want to meet them at least! And the Shur'tugalar only come here every five years or so, so I will not get any chance to see them for years if I do not go now. Who knows if they bring some dragon eggs for testing now? But will I hurt Ama's and Ata's feelings if I somehow become a Shur'tugal?

Only one way to find out.

"Ata?" I ask tentatively, leaning back against Ata, but I cannot bear to look at him now so I stare at the eastern horizon instead. He hums in acknowledgement, tightening his grip around my middle at the same time, makes me feel bolder, so I blurt everything out: "Can I go with you later? May I see the Shur'tugalar too? Do they bring any egg with them?"

Ata just sighs again, heavier this time, and turns me around on the railing, now embracing me properly. I put my arms around his shoulders and lay my head on his left shoulder. "Ata?" I murmur, now staring at the necklace of coloured stone-beads hanging around his neck. But he is not looking at me anyway. He is staring straight ahead. I bet he is staring at the eastern skyline too.

I do not know how long I wait; but at last Ata says, "Yes, you may, son. We are going after breakfast. Now let us prepare ourselves." But he does not let me go. He does not put me down on the floor and let me scamper off like usual. Instead, he puts his arms under my bum and carries me inside like a child of three. To think that he complained about how I was behaving like a small child just before the sun rose … but I do not dare tease him now. He just seems so sad, accepting but sad, as if he has foreseen this moment for a long time and tried to prepare himself to let me go – to no avail, apparently. But it does not really makes sense – I am not going anywhere!

But how if a dragon chooses me to become his or her partner?

Oh well.

Ata has not put me down, even though we are now amidst the hubbub of the town. I am mortified! How if Rolva sees me like this? She will not like me then! And We are the only two children of any similar age to each other here currently; who will be my playmate then? And where are we going anyway? This is not the route to the central field, the only place big enough for dragons. And where is Ama? She was not home for breakfast, and Ata and I ate alone from whatever Ata scrounged up from the kitchen. She is not usually like this …

I gape. Ama is here! Somehow, Ama has been waiting for us in front of a house ringed by fruit trees and berry bushes, which I have only ever passed twice in all my years of wandering the town. She looks just as melancholy as Ata does, for some reason, but she beams at me when our eyes meet so I am not too concerned about it.

"Ama!" I chirp at her, then wriggle down and out of Ata's arms. She catches me as I streak towards her, and lifts me up to settle in her arms.

"Amaaaa," I protest, try to wriggle down and away from her but to no avail. What is wrong with the both of them today? Am I not allowed to touch the floor for the whole day? Then how will I meet the Shur'tugalar? I would rather not see them at all to being carried everywhere like a tiny baby!

"Down, Ama, please," I beg. But she just turns around and carries me into the house, without even so much as a knock on the doorjam or a greeting to the occupants of the house. In fact, it is what makes me freeze on my own, without so much as a word from her. This is just … wrong! Ata told me a long time ago that he is the leader around here and helps people with things especially in big events, so he must be a good example for other people in Osilon. But what Ama is doing now is not –

Who is she? Who are they?

Another woman, who bears some resemblance to Ama, stands in the vestibule with another child in her arms, a child who looks to be of similar age to me. But they seem … weird. The woman looks so tired and wary, as if she has been hunted or ridiculed for a long time, and the child …

The boy does not glow, not like how children should, like Ama told me when I was two and asked why I shone brighter than Ama and Ata. The same wariness fills his gaze, coupled with mistrust and hopeless longing, and tempered down by sorrowful timidity. My heart twinges painfully when our eyes meet, and I get the urge to hug him and tell him that it is going to be all right, that I at least shall not hurt him. But how can I hurt him anyway? I do not even know his name. And why does he think I will hurt him? I did not even know that he exists before now.

"Meet your second cousin and her child, son," Ama murmurs in my right ear. "Narítha-aelúith, this is my son Evandar."

"Greetings and well-met, Narítha-tílúith," I murmur at the woman while pressing my index and middle fingers to my lips, to which she responds likewise and also with a wan smile. "Greetings and well-met to you too, third cousin. Might I know your name?" I add to the boy, to both women's and the boy's surprise – which baffles me greatly.

"Nellon," he murmurs. I love his voice: soft and sweet and pleasant, like the gentle gurgling of a brook. Why does he not talk more or even sing? I bet he can be a great singer. And why does he refuse to look at me now anyway? It is rude to look away when one is introducing oneself, Ata and Ama always say to me. But perhaps he is just shy? Oh, I can remedy it, if that is so.

I look up at my new-found second cousin, want to ask her if Nellon and I can play somewhere together while Ama stay with her. But before I can speak, she beats me to it, with tears glittering brightly in her eyes: "You have a wonderful son, Vínas-aelúith, a wonderful child."

Wha?

I gape at her. But I dare say it would be rude if I asked her what she means by saying so, so I keep my silence about it. Ama is letting me slide down onto the floor anyway, so I had better behave and not risk being carried again by her, or worse: punished. Now I can play too!

"May I go play with Nellon, Ama?" I beg her in my nicest wheedling tone, while tugging a little at her left hand. "May I? I promise I shall be good. I shall not even wander far if Ama says not to."

But ama does not immediately answer, not even for a yes or a no. I cease tugging at her hand. The small circular room has just plunged into a shocked silence, and I am made frightened by it. I press closer to Ama's legs, as the result. I do not care if I will be teased for being a big baby boy later; I just want some comfort and security now, and I can care less about all others. The situation is just too bizarre and incomprehensible, and I for once in my life lose all sense of composure.

And then, quite abruptly, Ama says a short "Yes," and then nudges me gently towards Nellon, whom I now see has been put down on the floor also. Oh well; at least I get my wish now. Time for some fun!

I do not know what is wrong with _him_! Nellon is skittish as skittish gets, and he refuses to play outside in the nearby creek, and he refuses to sing even though I have wheedled and praised him many times over, and he refuses to look at me straight in the eyes like he did when we firstly met each other. And the annoying thing is: he keeps glancing timidly at me when I am not looking at him, or when he thinks I am not looking at him. Am I a monster? Or an alien specimen of the zoology world, perhaps?

We are currently in a spare bedroom of sorts: small and filled with just a bed on a simple raised dase grown from the floor, a small wardrobe similarly grown from the floor, and a nightstand which is oddly not so attached to the flooring as the others are. But Nellon was silent when I asked him if this is his bedroom, and we are currently doing nothing: just sitting on opposite ends of the bed, feedling with the sheets and, in my part, staring moodily around. I cannot hear anything from the vestibule also; a ward of silence and secrecy is protecting it like a sphere of water. It is making me antsy as the result, and now I am beginning to get as skittish as the weird boy is. Not fun _at all_. I do not know how long we have been doing this, and care nothing about knowing it. All that I know is that I am on the last point of my patience, and I have to be doing some _other_ thing now or I shall get mad.

I glare sulkily at the weird boy, willing him to look up _straight_ at me, willing it with all my being that we can be more open to each other, if not becoming friends like I firstly hoped. Really, what is wrong with him? We are both boys, and kin, and of quite similar age if not the same, and we do not have anything to do this morning too. My home would be lively with my chatter and tinkering right now even if it were I alone there, if I were gifted with this great circumstance.

And he is not looking up, although I am sending him my best glare.

An insult to my glaring capacity. I can usually attract people's attention by glaring at them, when I am displeased with something or somebody, although I will then get in trouble for glaring in the first place. But Nellon simply does _nothing_.

I am _tired_ of this.

With a light leap and a little jolt on landing, I am crouching in front of him and seizing his right foot, tickling the sole with every trick that I possess.

He yips, yelps, then breaks into uncontrollable laughter and tries to tug his foot away from my fingers. Giggling hard myself, I redouble my efforts while dodging his grabbing hands. I wish I thought of this sooner! A good tickle can solve many things indeed, from Rolva's occasional moodiness to Ata's rare state of despondency.

I – _Eep!_ He has just found my neck – _Eep!_

Ama holds me close. I am still giggling. She has just separated the both of us from each other and lifted me up into her arms, and I cannot stop giggling yet somehow. It was quite fun! Wrestling with another boy is different to wrestling with a girl, it turned out. It was funner this way!

I look down at Nellon, who is now sweaty and palid-looking and sprawled eagle-spread on the bed, panting heavily with his chest heaving. He is grinning from ear to ear, his eyes sparkling with laughter, and I reciprocate just as fiercely. I do not know why he looks so exhausted, while I am feeling not the slightest bit tired and feeling rejuvenated instead; but I am no less glad and proud to have coaxed that expression onto his sickly complexion. "See you later?" I ask him hopefully. And, perhaps unable to articulate his affirmation, the no-longer-so-weird boy waves enthusiastically at me with both of his hands.

I wave both of my hands back at him, smirking cheekily, and he wheezes out a bout of laughter. "See you later then!" I chirp as Ama pats the top of his head. I smooch out a mock kiss when Ama's back is turned, to which he retaliates by lolling out his tongue at me, with his eyes crossed. His expression now is so comical that I burst into a gale of cackles.

Life is perfect right now. And I have just gotten a new friend!


	2. Chapter 2: The Egg

When the Sun Rises  
By: Eärillë

Camp NaNoWriMo project, July 2013: Evandar, the King of the Elves, is portrayed as "stern and proud" and silver-haired in the Cycle. But was he always like that? What could be the beginning that saw to the making of the King that we glimpse in the series? I assure you, it was truly unexpected.

Chapter 2  
_The Egg_

The feather-flapping is somewhat familiar to me, but I am unnerved hearing it all the same, so I am thankful that Ata is carrying me right now, although I will be mortified if those Shur'tugalar see me acting like an overgrown baby. Shall I just wriggle down and hide behind his legs instead then? But –

Whoa. The dragon is _huge_! It is silvery-white and sparkling in the late-morning sunlight and flapping a pair of huge off-white powerful-looking wings … but why is Ata holding me so tightly now? The dragon is kind and gentle, no? He or she must be so, for being partnered with an älfa. So I am not in any danger right now, yes?

I wriggle. "Ataaaa, let me goooo."

But he does not. The dragon's partner releases himself from the straps on the saddle, jumps nimbly down onto the lawn and strides towards us, and Ata still does not let me go. "Ataaa," I whinge, acutely embarrassed. I can feel the Shur'tugal's stare on us, and I can feel my cheeks heat up even more keenly than that, and I am greatly discomfited by both. What is wrong with Ata now? Everybody is weird today!

The Shur'tugal halts before us and – to my gratitude – looks straight at Ata instead of at me. "Eldanvír," he murmurs.

"Anurin," Ata murmurs in return, tensely, and holds me tighter as if the Shur'tugal is about to spirit me away to Dorú Araeba without his consent.

I cease wriggling in Ata's arms. They only exchanged _names_, no honorific of any kind, not even the two-fingers-on-lips silent greeting that is the standard custom of our society for nearly all conversations. It is beyond peculiar, especially as it was done by whom I deem as honourable and examples for how the society ought to behave. _Why?_

"Eldanvír," the Shur'tugal murmurs again. But this time Ata is silent. He even takes a step back when the Shur'tugal raises a hand either to touch me or him. I stare wide-eyed at Ata, even more dumbfounded, which I never dreamt could ever happen especially to me. Ata is usually quite outgoing, a trait I think I inherit myself from him. Ata never forbade anybody from touching me or even holding me too, as far as I know, even when I was a newborn and must have been quite fragile.

"Eldanvír, please."

I never dreamt that a Shur'tugal would beg for any kind of thing to my father too, even if my father is some kind of leader of the town. Who is Ata when he is not being my father and Ama's mate and the town-leader of Osilon, really? And who is the Shur'tugal too? For I have just noticed a star-shaped white pendant as big but much thinner than an adult's palm resting upon his russet-tunic-clad chest, which I never spied on the person of any other Shur'tugal who ever visited Osilon in my lifetime.

"Ata?" I call tentatively. Ata flinches as if I had shouted in his ear; but he does feel less withdrawn and askance now, more like the father who has been caring for me for these twenty years, and it eases my heart a little. He addresses his response to the Shur'tugal though, instead of to me, and in not-so-civil tone at that.

"My house, now."

Whoa. He is … _ordering_ the Shur'tugal?

And the Shur'tugal _does_ follow us as Ata walks away, takes the route that is the farthest from the watching dragon's head. This is getting more and more bizarre by the moment.

But the dragon looks so sad, and it is real, and I can understand it, and my sympathy goes to the giant lizard who is now coiled around itself and looks more pitiful than majestic. `_I am sorry, beautiful one,_` I tell the dragon.

To my surprise, even though I have been hoping for it, the dragon answers me, in a male voice no less: `_I know, and I am sorry as well, little one._`

`_Can I see you some time? May I?_` I ask him, emboldened by desperation, for Ata's pace will soon bring us out of the sight of the dragon.

`_You may,_` he says, and I slump against Ata in relief.

`_See you then. And I shall bring my new friend to meet with you too. You will like him, I promise you,_` I tell him with greater enthusiasm and less apprehension. He just chuckles, but I can feel his gentle approval and indulgence, so I think he will not mind the added company.

I can look forward to that, at least, if to nothing else, since the day has proven too surreal and unexpected for any other expectations.

I sit awkwardly in Ata's lap, with the Shur'tugal sitting in the only other available adult-sized chair. I am too old for this kind of sitting arrangement! Well, that is, when anybody else except Ama and Ata is around; but that is beside the point. It is really curious that the Shur'tugal is not remarking about it at all, whether seriously or in jest, and he does not even request that I not be present, even though I suspect that this is a private matter between the two men.

Well, in fact, he is not speaking at all, just staring grimly and meaningfully at Ata, and Ata is doing just the same to him. It is really frustrating to me, especially since I do not know what started this, or what is their problem with each other, or how I might probably help them by being here. And they have been doing it for a _long_ time already!

"Ata?" I call tentatively, for the first time since Ata 'welcomed' the Shur'tugal into our abode and bade him sit in Ama's chair. I only receive a short grumble from him as acknowledgement; but I shall not let myself be discouraged by that. "May I play with Nellon-ránlúith now? I promise I shall not stray from his home. And Ama is still there, is she not?"

"Not yet," he speaks at last, but it is not what I would like to hear from him.

"Ata, please?" I beg. I cannot care less now whether we have any audience or not. "I shall be good." I cannot use the excuse that I am bored, because the tense atmosphere here makes me too antsy to be bored; and somehow I get the feeling that telling Ata that I wish to see the silvery-white dragon on the way to Nellon's house will not be received with any kind of welcome from him.

"Not yet, Andar," he says sternly, just so, without any other elaboration. I slump against him and curl up with a huff and a pout. I really cannot care less about anything now.

But no, I amend it a little, because the Shur'tugal is speaking now at last, and he for once stares directly at me while doing so.

"Would you at least introduce your son to me?"

"Evandar," Ata says curtly, then adds, "How do you know he is my son?"

I am hurt, truly hurt. Ata never introduced me with such coldness to anybody, and he never denied being my father even in jest to any stranger.

The Shur'tugal retracts his gaze from me, thankfully. I cannot yet manage to blink back the prickling tears from my eyes. I feel even more grateful that he then says, "He shares many features of yours, and his behaviour so far reminds me of both you and Vínas. How could I not guess that he is your son?" He diverts Ata's possible attention away from me, and proves me as Ata's son at the same time. But I do not appreciate his blunt tone as he adds, "Besides, you are the sole Alantra left. Or has Evandar-finiarel chosen Alantra as well? That would be good for the House." Oh, I do appreciate him noting that I am a 'young man' already, of great promise no less, especially since it is the first time ever that anybody ever addressed me in such a fashion; but Ata sucks a sharp breath as if he had just been punched on the belly, and he is cradling me as close as he can against him now, and I do not like how upset he has become, despite how he made me upset just now.

"Speak for yourself," Ata snaps. "How many members do your House have now, eh?"

I _hate_ where this seems to be leading …

"Three, if little Erinel chooses to be counted in his father's House, in five years time," the Shur'tugal says calmly, although I can sense ice beneath his politeness.

Ata barks out a flat laughter. "Three, but _if_," he mocks.

I try mightily not to shudder in his embrace. Ata has been transformed into a hardened, cold-hearted being since the arrival of the Shur'tugal and I –

"Eldanvír, what is wrong with you?" the Shur'tugal finally snaps. Oh, it is what I have been wondering as well. And judging from Ata's sullen silence in the wake of the question, he cannot even say "Nothing" as the excuse.

The Shur'tugal huffs in defeat and bends down to retrieve something from one of his three saddlebags. Apparently, despite the long acquaintance that I am beginning to think they share, the Shur'tugal still cannot outstubborn and outsullen Ata. And then he brings out –

"Out!" Ata half-howls at me, pushes me roughly down from his lap, and drags me swiftly and painfully to the front door by my right wrist. I have only managed to see a rather large spherical and glittering orange something in the Shur'tugal's hands.

"Ataaa," I wail. Tears spring back into my eyes, and a sob threatens to erupt from my throat. Where is my father? Who is this man?

"Dana!" The Shur'tugal is equally shocked; he sounds so at least. Then another set of hands wrench me away from my father's grasp, and I shriek in surprised fear. Ata lunges at me, but the Shur'tugal dances away, with me sobbing and feeling wretched, dangling a little loosely in his arms. "Dana – cease it – you are hurting your son!"

And just so, Ata freezes mid-grab. The Shur'tugal halts as well, settling me more snugly and securely in his arms. "Dana, please, listen to me," he pleads, but Ata's growl stops him short. He sighs and rocks me a little, as if I were the one needing the comforting instead of the Shur'tugal himself.

But I admit, the motion and the warmth behind it calms me a little, and I cannot help lean deeper into the embrace for more cuddling, because Ata's current look – both ferocious and stricken – frightens me even more than the show of his capability at physical violence just now.

But despite cutting at the Shur'tugal's words, Ata is saying nothing now, just breathes heavily and staring darkly at the both of us.

"I never mean to steal your son, you know," the Shur'tugal murmurs after a long pause. "I only meant to show an egg to him. And it is after all the main purpose of my coming to this town, aside from seeing you and Vínas after such a long separation. Am I not allowed so?" Sorrow and an old pain laden his voice, and I shiver inwardly. A long acquaintance, indeed.

And at long last, Ata speaks again, although I despise the acrid bitterness in his tone just as much as his jagged expression and his rough treatment of me just now.

"I have not forgotten nor forgiven what happened in the Dead Land."

What is the Dead Land? Where is it? I have never seen it on any map, nor have I heard it mentioned even by Ata before this.

"I know," the Shur'tugal says softly. "I know. We know: Elivor and I. But are you going to extend your hatred to your own son, Dana? Please reconsider. This egg is precious to me, as she was sired by Elivor. I would be greatly honoured if she would hatch for your son or whom he chooses as his friend."

Ata growls again, and I cringe from the viciousness conveyed in just that one discordant note, but the Shur'tugal plods on. "Even if he will not be a Shur'tugal, would you rather pass your own hatred down to him instead of letting him form his own sense of the dragons?"

"I have never taught him to hate them, so cease your arrogant, self-righteous lecturing now," Ata snaps at him. I can see his hands balled into fists at his side.

The Shur'tugal bows his head solemnly. "My apologies. I did not mean to be so. My fear was speaking, not my common sense."

Ata snorts. I can form at least a dozen mocking, biting words from the interpretation of that sound alone, and it just makes the whole affair all the more wretched. I never thought nor imagined that my father could be like this. That makes me wonder, with a mounting sense of dread, if Ama could act like this also. After all, if a reckless and sunny man could turn out like this, what would bar a naturally thoughtful and even-tempered woman from exploding in a cold rage?

The Shur'tugal sighs again, now sounding exhausted and ragged, almost as wretched as I am, and sags a little. "Please, Dana," he begs, intense and bluntly genuine now. "Please. I was trying to escape Alesa and Delanor, and here you are throwing a similar tantrum. Might we please just talk about our families instead?" Then he adds in a forced bright tone, just a little more cheerful than before, "Where is Vínas anyway? I would have thought that she would come when you began having a fit."

This time, The shur'tugal is the one who is hastily shooing me out of the front door, although in a much gentler manner than when Ata nearly did. Before I can say anything to either him or Ata however, he thrusts the rangy-coloured sphere into my arms and slams the door shut before my nose.

I look down at the sphere, which glitters brightly in the dappled sunlight as if in greeting to me. "Huh. So you are a dragon egg?" I whisper dumbly at it. A sense of awe drenches my being, petrifies me, even as my imagination runs wild.

And then a loud thump sounds from somewhere on the other side of the door, and smaller thumps follow swiftly after. I goggle at the closed door, jolted away from my imaginings. Shall I come back inside? Or shall I go to Nellon's home? But the egg …

But the thumps are getting closer to the door, broken by two sets of loud

heavy breathing, as if the two men are grappling silently and intensely with each other for the first place reaching the door.

I take off. Neither of those two madmen shall catch me!

I shift a little, clutch the egg closer; try to, rather, because it is larger than the span of my both arms combined.

Ama and Cousin Narítha have been staring silently at me for the past moment, and it is awkward standing on the threshold like this, and it is unnerving to be ogled by two women, one of whom is my mother, for any period of time and because of anything. I am beginning to think that perhaps I ought to have detoured to the central lawn to seek the silvery-white dragon instead, in fact, because this is even worse than being with Ata and the Shur'tugal at home.

"Ama," I implore at my mother at last. I cannot stand it any longer! "May I play with Nellon-Ránlúith now?"

"Is that a dragon egg, in your arms?" Ama asks me back. On my nod, she asks again, "Who gave you the egg? And where is your father?"

"Ata is at home with the Shur'tugal, and the Shur'tugal was the one who gave me the egg," I say. "I think Ama ought to go there now; Ata and the Shur'tugal do not seem to get along very well." I throw an apologetic look at Cousin Narítha meanwhile, who just smiles wanly at me.

But Ama is frowning. "The Shur'tugal gave you the egg?" she confirms, even as she beckons me to her and peers distractedly at the huge glossy oblong sphere in my arms.

I nod, as I press closer to her without loosening my grip around the egg.

Shaking her head and exchanging confused gazes with Cousin Narítha, she wonders aloud, "It cannot be. The procession only begins either this evening or tomorrow evening. Did Ata introduce the Shur'tugal to you?"

I shake my head. "No," I say, "not directly. I told Ama, did I not? They do not seem to be getting along well with each other. But I think Ata called him Anurin–" I have to scramble away quickly because Ama suddenly leaps onto her feet with a surprised gasp "–and the Shur'tugal's dragon might be named Elivor, because he said that this egg was sired by Elivor–"

I swallow back the rest of my explanation. Ama has already torn across the vestibule and out of the house, without even a look back at me or a farewell to Cousin Narítha. "Wha?" I gape.

Shaking my head, I tear my gaze away from the half-ajar front door and look up hopefully at Cousin Narítha. "May I play with Nellon-ránlúith now, Narítha-tílúith?" Ama is not here any longer anyway; I could ask her later what the fuss was with Ata and the Shur'tugal.

"You … Are you going to bring the egg with you there?" she asks me back, with her old wariness making a return. I nod. But what made her ask me so? I wanted to share the egg with Nellon, so I came here. Besides, the Shur'tugal entrusted the egg to me, and he did say that it – oh no, _she_ – is precious to him, so I ought not let her lying around and getting lost, ought I?

"Would you please leave the egg here before you visit with my son?" she requests. I dither. Leave the egg?! Not that I do not trust her, oh, not at all; but …

"The Shur'tugal entrusted the egg to me, Narítha-tílúith," I try to explain. "I wanted to show her to Nellon-ránlúith, so I came here. I thought perhaps we could play with her together. And then I thought I was going to ask for your permission to go with him to visit with my new acquaintance: the white dragon who bore the Shur'tugal here."

Her countenance transforms into a mask of pain and grief. I suck in a breath, my chest squeezes tight. "My deepest apologies, if any of my words or intentions offend you, Narítha-tílúith," I murmur in my most earnest tone. Guilt and apprehension cloud my heart. I did not mean to distrust her with the keeping of the egg! I just – or has she been offended by another thing?

I must be looking pitifully horrified, for she raises a hand and strokes gently at my left temple with her index finger, and smiles the same wan smile that always makes me want to hug and comfort her. And then she whispers softly, "You would raise my son's hopes because you are a gentle and generous soul, child; but the world is harsh, and individuals like you are few and far scattered. I but fear that my son will shatter when his hopes fall from the high perch you have helped him into. I have lost my mate; I refuse to lose my son as well."

Righteous anger sparks in me, and the only thing that gentles my tongue is her grief-stricken look, which seems genuine to my senses. "Would you constrain him forever here, then?" I whisper back at her. "For I would rather he be with me, and we might ascend and fall together rather than all alone."

She chuckles bitterly. "You may say so now, child, but will you stay in that opinion when, as you planned, you bring my son out into the town?"

I stare uncomprehendingly at her, mute with confusion.

She strokes my temple again, then runs her hand along the side of my head, combing my hair. But she says nothing else for a long, long time, just stares at me with the deep hunger of what I imagine a starving person would show on his or her face. But on my part, I am just too baffled to feel too afraid or discomfort. Just … what is she not saying? What about Nellon that people will scorn and shun him for it? He looks unhealthy, yes, and he is probably like that for most of his life or at least this season; but he proved himself that he could wrestle and laugh and joke like any other boy, albeit with limited energy. So why?

I gaze up at Cousin Narítha imploringly. Oh please, please, please tell me …

But she does not. She just stands up with a ragged sigh, with her unbound hair curtaining most of her face, and leads me by my shoulder to another door, different from where Nellon led me to earlier this morning.

"I shall go see the Shur'tugal," she says at last, as we stand before the closed screen door. "Nellon may be sleeping still. Please do not wake him up if he indeed is." She kneels then, puts her hands on my shoulders and looks at me straight in the eyes, sharp and pleading. "Afterwards the both of you may go to wherever you wish as long as it is still nearby," she whispers, softer and more pained than before. "But promise me, child, promise me you shall not leave him alone in any circumstance, save if he is home. Lead him back into his room here if you no longer wish to be with him." I look away from the agony in her eyes. I cannot stand it.

"I promise, Narítha-tíluith," I whisper back. "We – I – I shall return here with him if he wants to be back here. I shall not leave him alone till you return home."

She does not thank me, does not say that it is all right to her, does not give more instructions, does not demand any other promise, does not even remark about the promise I made in addition to hers. She just hugs me close, dragon egg and all, and I can feel warm tears running down my scalp from where her cheek connects with my head.

She does not need to. I know.


	3. Chapter 3: The Dragon

When the Sun Rises  
By: Eärillë

Camp NaNoWriMo project, July 2013: Evandar, the King of the Elves, is portrayed as "stern and proud" and silver-haired in the Cycle. But was he always like that? What could be the beginning that saw to the making of the King that we glimpse in the series? I assure you, it was truly unexpected.

Chapter 3  
_The Dragon_

It is irksome, to find Nellon to be as evasive as his mother about why he has so little store of energy or why people might shun him. But I suppose I understand it; nobody would boast about their weaknesses after all, or even tell about them, without being pressured – and I do not wish to press Nellon for detail right now.

I am content enough at present, sitting on Nellon's bed near the edge with the dragon egg nestled in my lap, watching Nellon watch it with longing and painful hunger from his place snuggled in bed under the covers. The mother and son are so similar …

But I cannot be like this for much longer, I know that. I am not much of an indoor person anyway. So how to get him go with me to visit with the dragon? Is he fit enough to walk to the central field? I do not think I can carry him while carrying the egg also, and I do not know if he will appreciate being carried halfway across the town all the same.

There is just one way to find out.

"Do you want to go to the central field with me? I would like to introduce you to a new acquaintance of mine. He is a dragon. How awesome is that?" I send him an excited grin, which to my dismay is not reciprocated. But I plough on. "He is huge but kind. You will like him, I am sure. I do not think Ata likes him though; but then again Ata does not seem to like the Shur'tugal, although he has invited the Shur'tugal home. How weird is that?" I snort.

And at last, he smiles; perhaps to my irked expression hence at my expense, but at least he smiles.

I wink conspiratorially at him, then lower my voice a little in a mock whisper: "Ha, I know, we shall prank Ata and the Shur'tugal, so they will not snipe at each other again. Do you think the dragon will help us?"

He giggles. I giggle myself on the images my mind conjures for that idea.

"Do you think she would like to help too?" I wonder aloud, look at the egg now snuggled in-between us atop the covers, then stare thoughtfully at Nellon, who is staring back with a look that is almost stricken.

"You will make a good Shur'tugal," he mumbles on my questioning stare.

"Why not 'we' instead? You are making things more difficult and less fun, you know," I complain half-heartedly.

He smiles bitterly. The stare he is sending to the egg is now dark and fathomless, and I am beginning to worry about what harm he might do to her, despite his apparent weakness. But in spite of the alarming look, his voice is surprisingly calm, even weary, when he points out, "You know that there can only be one partner for one dragon, do you knot? And there is only one egg here."

I huff. A part of me would like to agree with him, but the other – larger – part would love to include him in this. It just seems … right.

"Look at her," I implore him. "She is huge, is she not? She is enough for the two of us, if she desires it. And who ever says that there can only be one partner for one dragon? It just has never been attempted."

He stares incredulously at me. "The bond between a Shur'tugal and his or her dragon is _primal_. Surely you know that?"

I shrug. I do not wish to concede to his point. I get what he meant though: that such a link between two älfya and a dragon would be considered almost blasphemous. But still, I do not wish to give up my desire.

Now, it is my turn to stare darkly at the unmoving egg nestling between the two of us.

It is mentally and almost physically tiresome, having to drag Nellon out of his home and along the way to the central lawn. But I would do even more than this if it meant I could get him to go out to see the silvery-white dragon with me. He just … I just … well it would be much funner if we go about it together, at any rate! No need for any other excuse.

"Come on, Ello. See? People are going there also. I do not wish to shoulder my way past the adults," I complain. I hear him mutter something, but a pair of girls are giggling loudly nearby, so I do not catch what he is saying. He speeds up a little anyhow, so I do not care much about what he is grumbling about under his breath.

Except if …

"Are you tired already?" I halt and usher him to the side of the path. The tips of his ears go pink and he refuses to look at me, looking at the egg balanced in the crook of his right arm instead, but he shakes his head to my question.

"Did I walk too fast?" I ask again, then add in a mutter, "But we are not snails, are we?"

He glares sulkily at me, then, lifting his chin in a resolute manner, drags me back into the path and onwards. Behind his back, I grin hugely and jog a little to catch up. Great! Now I know how to goad him into doing something. No need for physical means anymore. Now we can hurry there too. It may have been only an hour, but I do not know if the dragon is still there, or if he is still free of admirers, and – like I told Nellon just now – I do not wish to contend with the adults for a position nearest the dragon, because I will sorely lose.

I can be a sore loser, yes yes, no need to dwell on that.

Two little boys – one of whom is far weaker than an average boy – against two Shur'tugalar and at least ten älfya: definite disadvantage. And unfortunately, it is the situation that we are currently facing. It has turned into a stalemate now, but I almost cannot care less about it, because the silvery-white dragon whom we came for is crouched behind all these suspicious people, and I sorely want to be there _with_ Nellon and our huge orange egg.

The chronology is like this: We arrived here in the central lawn about fifteen minutes ago, and the lawn was already full of milling and chattering people, and there were already two other dragons occupying the field aside from the silvery-white one. And then one woman noticed us and the egg and exclaimed about how we got the egg, and accused Nellon of stealing it, perhaps because Nellon had the egg – and he still has her now. She tried to take the egg from him, so I stepped in front of him and thus prevented her from reaching him at all. She did not like it, and demanded why I would defend an abominable creature and a thief, to which Nellon squawked that he was neither an abominable creature nor a thief, and I firmly agreed with him – though I inwardly did not approve of his wavering tone. It degenerated into a shouting match between the two of us and the woman plus some other people, until the two Shur'tugalar stepped in and demanded that Nellon give the egg to them.

I told the Shur'tugalar what I more or less told Cousin Narítha: "I was given this egg by a Shur'tugal, so we are guarding it now. The Shur'tugal might not be pleased if he later sees that his precious egg was no longer in my keeping." One man then remarked that the egg was not anywhere on my person anyway hence she was not "in my keeping," to which I retorted – rather cheekily and belligerently, I admit – that she was on my friend's person and he was here with me, hence she was still "in my keeping." And then one of the Shur'tugalar asked who gave me the egg and how I knew it was a 'she', so I told them: "My father called the Shur'tugal Anurin. The Shur'tugal also mentioned somebody named Elivor, so perhaps that is the name of his dragon partner. Those are all that I know about him. As for the dragon in the egg being a female, I was told by the Shur'tugal, and he told me too that she is precious to him; and then I told Nellon-ránlúith about it all."

And that was all. Everybody froze on my last explanation somehow, and that was perhaps twenty finger-counts ago, and they are still standing stiff and mute like statues before us, with matching looks of surprised incredulity on their faces. I do not understand why, and I find myself reluctant to ask. I am feeling too uncomfortable to speak myself, and too concerned with Nellon's trembling-but-strong grip on my left shoulder to use the chance of the stalemate to immediately dash to the silvery-white dragon's side.

Then, quite abruptly, the silvery-dragon who is barred from us by the living fence of álfya and Shur'tugalar rises up and lets lose a low, earth-quaking rumble which can only be described as threatening.

Our way is suddenly cleared: without a sound, without a fuss.

A shur'tugal raises his silver-hand towards the suddenly-empty space of lawn between the three of us and the dragon.

I grasp Nellon's hand, push it from my shoulder, then yanks it after me as I drag him running as swiftly as possible towards the dragon.

A woman's startled – and perhaps frightened – scream rends the silence rudely. The shur'tugal intones what sounds like a protection spell behind our backs; his magic circles us weakly by his half-worded command.

I bring Nellon into a sprint in the last paces, straight into the hollow between the dragon's left foreleg, and we collapse – Nellon collapses on top of me, that is, and I collapse onto the grassy earth from the sudden weight on my back – right away. The dragon's left wing rustles as it screens us from the onlookers and the spell-weaving Shur'tugal, and the Shur'tugal stops his frantic chanting midway. But I am far more concerned with Nellon now than anything else, even the egg which has just thudded onto the grass nearby. He is convulsing and choking! What should I do? Why is he like this? What can I do?

"Ello I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry Cousin – I did not know I swear I did not know – I am so sorry – please please please – please calm down…" I whimper, with the same jumble of words shrieked in my head. He is dying! My cousin is dying – and it is all because of _me_! I am wretched, terrified, angry with myself, helpless, horrified –

The dragon snakes his snout into the tent he has made himself around us, regards us with one huge light-grey eye, then shifts a little and scrutinises my red-faced, choking, spasming cousin. He hums deep in his being, makes everything including my body tremble because of it, and inches closer to Nellon. Hot tears scold my eyes and run down my cheeks. Even the dragon knows.

But the dragon does something, something that I cannot do myself: he puts the tip of his snout on Nellon's chest in spite of the thrashing limbs and head, and his humming intensifies.

Magic, wild magic, permeates the air. I suck in a breath, and cannot let it go.

Then just so, the magic and the humming vanish without a trace, save for the reeling sensation in my head and the tingles running up and down my whole being.

And Nellon is staring wonderingly at me, with his eyes open wide like the flat pebbles I use for stone-skipping in the creek near home. He is no longer thrashing, no longer heaving and choking his breaths, no longer looks as if he is dying –

No longer glows far dimmer than even the adults do …

"Whoa," I whisper, caught in the same wonder that he must be feeling. "Whoa … "

It is as if the dragon has fixed something fundamental in Nellon's being that was fractured or even lacking, and he is now whole, though maybe still weak in the area of stamina and store of energy. It is unbelieveable! It feels bizarre to me, although I am beholding the result at present. I cannot yet grasp the very concept of healing an unhealable, invisible injury using raw, wild magic, let alone the notion that a _dragon_ was the one doing that.

But I do grasp the notion that now Nellon cannot use the excuse of being too sick to be a Shur'tugal, and I am fully aware of the debt I and my cousin owe to the dragon, whom I do not yet know the name of for certain. Thus I approach the dragon's head, which is still lightly resting atop my cousin's prone body, and hug him around the snout as far as my arms can reach. Meanwhile I let my feelings of relief, gratitude, awe and wonderment overwhelm all my senses and travel mentally towards him, since no mere word would suffice to me to express what I have been feeling, which has left me weak and dazed with acute relief and happiness that my cousin is still alive.

The dragon only flicks the tip of his rough-surfaced tongue at Nellon's cheek, then at mine, and hums softly with contentment.

It feels quite awkward, playing while being stared at by adults as if we were unreal or belong to a new-found kind of creature. But to Nellon's credit, he looks and acts more chipper and unconcerned than I do, as we work in tandem releasing the dragon from his saddle, which he said was enough to repay the debt that we silly children felt we owed him. My cousin even goes as far as playing an impromptu hanging swing briefly on one of the saddle-straps which is only half-connected to the dragon's body and, giggling giddily, bids me to try it myself.

And of course, I do.

And now we are skipping on yet another half-hanging strap, and I love the act and challenge very much. And to that, the dragon only laughs, both physically and in our minds, even as we flood the three-way communication with our chatter about how our day have been - `_and how has your day been, white one?_` Nellon is asking, to which the dragon replies with, `_I was bored until the two of you came,_` and the three of us chuckle to that, and then he extols the virtues and beauty of his mate and his unhatched daughter and we laugh uproariously to his love-sick, silly pronouncements.

I do not know if the crowds are still watching us, and I no longer care. The saddle is just slowly being unbuckled, but the dragon does not seem to mind it, so I do not mind it; and it appears that Nellon can even care less about it, given how he is now clambering up the dragon's foot and seats himself in the precariously-shifting half-undone saddle together with our orange egg – the dragon's daughter. And of course, I do not want to be left behind, so as soon as the last knot is freed from the dragons right forefoot I follow after my cousin.

And the shifting and added weight apparently prove too challenging for the freed saddle to stay atop the dragon's shoulders, so the two of us tumble back onto the grass with each a shriek, a breathless huff, and peals of giggles at our own silliness, as the egg lies in-between the two of us in the slight indantation she created as she fell just now.

The dragon snorts out a ploom of smoke to our silliness. We cough, then giggle again, and stare at each other meaningfully over our orange eggy companion.

We know, we are aware of it: we are creating a haven for ourselves in despite of everything, and it would not be possible without each of us and our egg, and the ability is too addicting to let go of, so we cannot let go of each other as well.

We do not wish to.

While I sthill think that witnessing a dragon's previously-unknown-to-me magic at work on a miracle is the most astonishing thing ever in my short life thus far, the sight that I, Nellon and the dragon are beholding right now is second to it: Ata is approaching the bit of lawn where we are lounging with a resigned look on his face, walking _side by side_ in an almost friendly manner with our Shur'tugal guest, and the two men look as if they are being herded here by Ama and Cousin Narítha. It is a tickling sight too, hence why I am giggling hard right now, even though Ata is throwing me a wounded expression for that.

Well, actually, that only tickles me more, and I am now caught in a gale of laughter even as Nellon is watching me with curious amusement shining on his smiling face.

Sadly, I am too busy laughing to notice as Ata, with a playful growl, swoops down and scoops me up into his arms. "You dare laugh at me, little boy?" he mock snarls. I stick my tongue out at him and grin unrepentantly.

To that, he tickles me on the neck, and I squeal with surprise and glee.

"Ataaa!" I yelp in protest, then giggle again even as I try to dodge his dancing fingers.

And then I hear it: somebody else is laughing just as hard nearby, and Ata's Shur'tugal guest is crooning playful threats to … my cousin?

I twist in Ata's arms, and burst into another peal of laughter as my mind registers the sight of Nellon squirming and flailing in Ata's Shur'tugal guest's arms. And nearby, our dragon friend is doing the same, with his lips pulled back slightly, revealing sharp teeth that somehow do not alarm me much.

Around us, älfya and Shur'tugalar alike watch in silent wonder, and I am curious to why, but I cannot care less to the attention now, especially as Ama is ruffling my hair in that affectionate way of hers.

My family are back and whole and all familiar again, with some additions no less, so I am content now and wanting for no other.


End file.
